


Go Find Your Own Place To Hide!  (Or: An entire Palace and no good place to hide.)

by RitaMarx



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, The plot bunny made me do this!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitaMarx/pseuds/RitaMarx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Treville needs a place to hide from the King’s Wrath.  One shot.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Find Your Own Place To Hide!  (Or: An entire Palace and no good place to hide.)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hide and Seek](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917518) by [LadyCavil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/pseuds/LadyCavil). 



> Inspired by the “Hide and Seek” series by LadyCavil.  
> A special Big Thanks to LadyCavil, who owns the “Hide and Seek” series. Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox for a while. Here is my contribution to the care and feeding of the  
> hide-and-seek!plotbunny. =;) 
> 
> My generic disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don’t own it. If you don’t recognize it, I probably do own it. Not making any $$$ off this.

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To say that His Majesty, King Louis XIII of France, did not take kindly to the report the Captain of his Musketeers had given him would be a vast understatement. 

The first indication was the facial paralysis, which gave the beloved monarch the appearance of an angry, glowering statue. This was followed by a twitch in one eyelid. Then came the royal-red flush rising from the lace collar up to his hairline. 

Those who knew the signs were already oozing towards the nearest exit. Several gave the Captain a look of gladdened pity. Pity for him for having told the King something he did not want to hear. Gladness that it wasn’t them. 

A bead of sweat slithered down the back of Treville’s neck. He could feel it sliding down his spine as he stood at attention. As any good military commander knows, sometimes, in battle, it is best to make a strategic retreat. He takes a peek over his shoulder to find his men have already taken the hint and have fled for their own safety. Cautiously, he makes his way out of the audience chamber. He decides he needs to find somewhere, anywhere, to hide until the king calms down. 

At last, Treville finds himself on the other side of the ornately decorated doors leading to the royal audience chamber. He’s alone, standing in a very empty corridor. There’s not a person in sight. He slaps his hat against his leg and runs a hand through his hair and down his face. “Well, that certainly did not go over well,” he thinks. 

This promised to be a Royal Hissy Fit for the records. 

It didn’t take long before statuary and antique vases start flying. Colorful language, harsh enough to make even the most hardened of sailors cover their ears fills the air. 

Even though the heavy doors, he can hear every word his monarch shouts. “Where did he learn such language?” he thinks. “I do hope Her Majesty isn’t around to hear this. This is too much for even my delicate ears.” 

He jumps at the sound of a loud crash against the doors. The sight of the heavy oak panels shuddering against the impact is enough to spur the captain to self-preservation. “Time to go.” He spins on his heel and strides down the polished marble floor. 

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Athos: 

=:)

=:)

=:)

=;)

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D’Artagnan: 

In a long corridor, Treville sees the tall windows heavily draped against the chill of the northern wind beating against the glass. He looks to the right – no one in sight. He looks to the left – no one there. He slips behind a curtain and presses his forehead against the cool, leaded glass. Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath. 

“Enjoying the view, Captain Treville?” a soft, feminine voice inquires. 

Treville startles and bumps his head against the thick glass. “Madame Bonacieux…. I was just checking on the weather. It looks like snow, does it not?” 

“Indeed it does, Captain.” 

Treville notices D’Artagnan’s arms about the lady’s waist and raises an eyebrow. 

The youngest musketeer glares at him and makes a subtle motion with his head and eyes, motioning off to the side, towards the corridor. Treville looks at Constance, noticing the kiss-swollen lips and the blush upon her fair skin. He glances to his youngest and inwardly cringes as D’Artagnan gives him his infamous puppy eyes. 

The Captain weighs his options and questions. Which is worse: having to face the King’s wrath or D’Artagnan’s puppy eyes? “Ah yes… well.” Clearing his throat politely he nods, “D’Artagnan, I will see you in the morning. Madame.” He gives Constance a slight bow, as much as the heavy material behind him would allow. 

He cracks open the curtains and takes a discreet peek up and down the corridor, and slips out. 

“Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux! Just the person I was looking for.” He coughs to cover up the slight sound of a gasp as he walks away. 

Jacques Bonacieux greets the captain with a bow. “Captain Treville. How may I be of service?” 

Treville grabs the draper by the elbow and steers him back the way he came, away from a particular set of curtains. “I need your advice. You see here, I have a particularly stubborn stain on my dress cloak.” He all but shoves a corner of his cloak into Bonacieux’s face as he takes a quick glance over his shoulder. He sees the curtain move, just slightly, as a pair of booted toes slide backwards. 

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Porthos: 

Treville enters another long gallery. Portraits of past royals are interspaced with weapons and armor on display. Shields and swords line the walls in some attempt at a decorative pattern. He surveys the hallway as he quickly makes his way past the suits of armor, etched and gilded, that stand at attention. With a battle-trained eye, he measures the dimensions of each. 

Coming to a halt before particularly large suit of steel, he eyes the space behind, gauging the distance between it, the wall and the bushy potted plant next to it. 

A loud crash in another room has him looking quickly over his shoulder. Then, with a silent prayer on his lips, he squeezes in behind the armor. He reaches over to pull some of the branches on the bushy plant closer to his side, and lets out a deep breath. 

“Oi, Captain. What are you doing there?” 

The captain jumps and bumps into the suit. He is forced to put his hands on its waist to steady it as it takes a noisy, wobbly, step forward and drops its pike with a loud clatter. 

Quiet cursing colors the air. 

Stepping around the armor, he walks it backwards, back into its place of honor among the heroes of the past. 

“Porthos? Is that you? What are you doing in there?” With a puzzled crease across his brow, he looks up and down the metal suit. “How did you get in there?” He snatches up the pike and turns to face the metal statue as armored gauntlet rises to lift the visor. Familiar brown eyes turn towards his. One large hand flounders about, reaching for the pike. 

Metal shoulders give an easy shrug. “I’m just trying it on for size, Captain. Never know… I might need this one day.” The dark musketeer smiles and gives his commanding officer a cheeky wink. “Um, what are you doing here?” 

“Just making an inspection of the armor.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

Another crash. 

With some hesitation in his voice, Porthos suggests, “With all respect, Sir, would you mind?” 

Reluctantly, the captain nods. “Everything seems to be in good order here. Carry on, solider.” He shoves the pike towards the musketeer and hurries his step down the long, very long corridor. He can feel the eyes of all the past Royals on his back as he tries to look dignified as he rushes out, without appearing to be in a rush. 

More cursing precedes the clacking sounds of heels stomping furiously about. 

Porthos drops his visor into place with a clank and secures the pike in his hand and snaps to attention. The shattered remains of a fine porcelain vase go sliding past his toes; from whence they came, he does not want to know. 

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Aramis 

In the serenity of the court’s chapel, at last, a feeling of calm settles over Treville as he walks softly between the pews to a small alcove. He stops to light a candle and says a quick prayer for His Majesty, “May he calm down, and soon,” he pleads, raising his eyes toward Heaven. “For the betterment of France, Dear Lord.” 

Another crash and the sound of glass splintering across the marble floor just outside the chapel echoes through the sacred space. More ranting and raving. He spies a piece of broken glass skittering through the chapel doorway. 

Treville quickly crosses himself and looks about for a place to hide – for sanctuary. A solitary figure in a brown robe motions him to be silent. The deep cowl shadows the monk’s face as he rises one arm to point to far side wall. 

The Captain’s boot heels make no sound on the floor as he hustles over to a confessional booth and slips in. With a soft sigh, he sinks into the cushion and gently thumps his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes. He takes several deep breaths, holds them and then slowly lets them out. He can actually feel his blood pressure start to go down. 

The soft rasp of a small curtain being pulled aside gets his attention and he immediately drops to his knees, his head bowed before the priest on the other side of the ornately cut-out screen. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… Well, it’s been a good while since my last confession.” 

“I wish I could help you, Captain, but I fear I cannot.” 

Treville’s head snaps up so fast, he has to slap one hand to the back of his neck, fearing whiplash. “Aramis! What do you think you’re doing in there?” 

“Shhh, Captain. Not so loud,” Aramis hisses. “This is a place for peaceful reflection and worship.” 

“Oh, God,” his captain groans. The young musketeer’s soft laughter follows him as he all but trips over his own feet as he exists the booth. 

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The Cardinal: 

In the guest wing, Treville finally finds an unused guest room and squeezes into the rather large wardrobe closet. He hears the king, still cussing up a blue streak and throwing things, but the sounds indicate he is moving away. He breathes a sigh of relief and begins to calculate how long he should wait in the closet before it might be safe to emerge. 

Suddenly, the door on one side opens and a tall figure squeezes in and shuts the door. He finds himself shoved deeper into a corner. He cannot stop the small noise that escaped his lips as his toes get squished. He takes a sniff and recognizes the soap. 

“Your Eminence?” he asks softly. 

The other person likewise sniffs. “Jean? What are you doing here?” 

They both flinch as they hear something splinter. 

“I am…inspecting the wardrobes. A wardrobe closet can never be too large, you know… for all the clothing of the royal guests. And you?” Treville inquires in a hushed voice. 

The Cardinal whispers. “This one fails inspection. I shall have to recommend to His Majesty that all wardrobes be replaced with something twice the size.” They both flinch as they hear another crash in a nearby room. 

“No, Armand, I mean, what are you doing *here?*” 

“Well…um… you see,” the Cardinal huffs. “It seems all the good… hiding places are Already. Taken.” The tightly reined in fury in the Cardinal’s voice is very apparent. 

Treville nods, “Ah, yes, I see.” He grimaces as something digs hard into his kidney. 

“Oh for the love of God, Jean. Would you please quit squirming like a worm on a hook?” 

Treville answers back in a strained voice, “Will you, please, get off my toes? And do Keep. Your. Voice. Down.” 

The large wooden box rocks a bit as they take a few precious seconds to rearrange themselves more comfortably against each other within the tight confines of the wardrobe. 

They follow the sounds of the king’s tirade as they seemingly fade into the distance. 

Suddenly, the doors are flung open and a pile of laundry is thrust into their faces and the door is slammed shut. 

The Cardinal spits out a rag and growls. Treville drags a sheet off from over his head. 

Seconds later the doors open again. A young laundry maid looks at them, unsure of what to do or say. 

“Tell me, has his Majesty calmed down yet?” the Cardinal politely inquires. 

The maid drops into a curtsey and shakes her head, “No, Your Eminence.” She darts a quick look over her shoulder. 

“I see. Well, then, carry on.” He raises his hand to give a blessing. 

“Yes, Your Eminence.” She drops another curtsey and scampers away like a squirrel as the Cardinal slams the door shut. 

Treville gathers the sheets into a bundle and inhales deeply. “Lavender.” He takes another deep sniff. “From Gascony.” 

“Oh, come now, Treville, how can you possible tell from the lavender is from? It all smells the same. Lavender is lavender.” 

“Oh no it isn’t. This smells like Gascony lavender. The Gascon nose remembers the fragrance of home.” He takes another deep sniff of the delicately fragranced linen and sighs. 

“Humph,” the Cardinal scoffs quietly. “I have always thought the Mediterranean coast produces a much better quality flower for baking.” 

They continue discussing the qualities of French lavender from different regions of the country. Treville cuts off the Cardinal in the middle of his discourse on the pros and cons of using different subspecies in the culinary arts. “Shush. Listen.” 

“What? No,” he sputters. “I will not be shushed by a common guard, the likes of you, Treville. Now, as I was saying--” 

“No, I mean, listen. Do you hear anything?” 

They realize everything is quiet; not sound is to be heard. They wonder what could have possibly brought about such quietude. 

They hear distinctive footstep get louder, and they seem to be coming into the room…and stop right in front of the wardrobe. They hold their breath. 

They jump as a loud knocking rattles the door. “Oh, Captain Treville, Cardinal Richelieu, you can come out now. Her Majesty has explained to me that this was all one great, big misunderstanding. And I forgive you both. You may come out of the closet now.” 

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Author’s Note: As you can see, Athos found the perfect hiding place. So perfect, in fact, that not even the hide-and-seek!plotbunny could find him.


End file.
